


A Very Merry MorMor Christmas

by RueRambunctious



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Christmas, Crimes & Criminals, Dammit Jim, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 03:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17216444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RueRambunctious/pseuds/RueRambunctious
Summary: My prompt from moran-or-moron was 'Gifts'. (It's a little late, but at least it's still 2018, right?)Sebastian doesn't want any gifts for Christmas, but he does want Jim Moriarty.





	A Very Merry MorMor Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moran_or_moron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moran_or_moron/gifts).



Sebastian has been working for the notorious consulting criminal Jim Moriarty for some time now. Certainly long enough to know to never give the Irishman a reason to doubt you, much less give him backchat.

Sebastian has not, however, been working for Moriarty long enough for Seb's face to have yet fully acknowledged that fact of life. Sebastian Moran has spent his whole life letting his face tell people what little he thinks of them or their ideas, and for the most part his exceptionally broad shoulders have put most people off of teaching Seb's face much sense of self-preservation.

Like the rest of him, Seb's skull is scarred but relatively attractive and hosts a terrible sense of judgement under thick skin. He knows fine well to keep his expressions deadpan lest bits of him turn up dead somewhere, but the endeavour is proving to be a steep learning curve.

“Something to add, Moran?” Jim Moriarty purrs.

Sebastian vividly remembers being freshly allocated a space as part of the Irishman's security detail. Pointing out what had seemed to him to be a glaring flaw in a plan, Sebastian had opened his mouth against Moriarty's head of security.

Moriarty had raised his brows cordially and asked for the man's opinion on that. Sebastian's hand had went to his weapon the instant his colleague's silhouette changed, but none of the rest of the team had moved to cover Jim Moriarty as Seb had.

They had known the man had no intention of trying to take out the consulting criminal. He had instead blown his own brains out rather than experience what Moriarty might do to failures.

Sebastian had found himself in the role of head of security and had to find his own replacement.

He knows fine well that someone will be finding a replacement for his role again if he doesn't learn to keep a straight face.

“No, sir,” he tells Jim Moriarty.

The consulting criminal smiles and blinks in an irregular way that sets Sebastian's nerves on edge. Tilting his head, Moriarty's smile widens further in a way that Seb understands to mean, 'Lie to me again and I have thousands of options at my immediate disposal for how to most unpleasantly brutalise your tongue.'

Sebastian nods quickly, just once, and deferentially drops his gaze to the floor.

Moriarty steps away, parting his lips in an intimidating little cluck of displeasure that makes Seb's pulse race. “I know it's customary for some organisations to take a day off for seasonal festivities, but we are hardly that sort of business.” The Irishman spins on his heels to narrow his dark eyes at Sebastian. “Or did you think you worked at Waitrose?”

“Just a facial tic,” Seb mutters. “Perfectly delighted to work on any day you choose, sir.”

Moriarty curls his lip disparagingly. “*You* don't need to think. I point; you shoot. Then you will clean up and come back here to do a double shift on security detail, how about that?”

Sebastian's lips press together before he can think how best to freeze his features. Perhaps he should buy a whole lot of Botox if he lives beyond this interaction.

“Not made for long hours, Moran?” Moriarty asks coolly.

“It's a pleasure to spend my every hour with you, sir,” Sebastian responds.

Moriarty scoffs. “Dismissed. Go take your fool face someplace else.”

Sebastian Moran is not oblivious to his exceptional good luck as far as escaping from Moriarty intact is concerned. Seb has always been rather lucky, but his life expectancy is uncannily high considering how often he blunders in Jim Moriarty's presence.

Sebastian wants to feel grateful as he changes into nondescript outdoor clothing, but he is distracted by other emotions. He does his best not to dwell on those and sets about organising himself for today's task.

Sebastian Moran might be Jim Moriarty's head of personal security detail, but he is also a spectacular marksman. Moriarty knows it, and ensures Sebastian gets plenty of practice in continuing to hone this skill.

Sebastian sets himself outside the building of a government body whose staff are strictly discouraged from wearing identification outside of its reinforced walls.

A fire alarm sets them scurrying outwards, lanyards and all, and it is not difficult for Sebastian to pick out who he has been paid to pay attention to. The sight Moriarty paid for is good enough that Seb could read the identity cards if he wanted to, but he doesn't need to. He knows his mark.

Sebastian Moran kills an important man, and in all the commotion not one person will notice Moriarty bypassing the supposed security of certain paper documents within the evacuated building and having them sent as scans via some spook's laptop.

Those photocopier / printers are an idle amusement of Jim's. The consulting criminal collects them from government bodies and large companies to glean information from the little computer brains built within. Sebastian wants to live under a government whose security does not allow state secrets to be bought and sold as used office hardware, but such is the current state of the country.

It suits Moriarty just fine for such ineptitudes to go unnoticed. He's gone from the most dangerous man in London to a globally feared shadowy figure fully adept at running far more than a few crooked elections.

Why the consulting criminal wants Sebastian Moran to work on Christmas Day is beyond the blond, but Seb does it anyway. He is hardly in a position to do otherwise.

Christmas comes with a welcome lack of a Christmas party to make a fool of oneself at. The weather is typically English, but Jim Moriarty is far too occupied with various digital crimes to venture out in it much himself. Give or take the odd shooting, Sebastian stays warm and dry indoors as well.

The big day could be any day in December, for all the merriment in the air, but the dead quiet indicates it is not. Hordes of Christmas shoppers irritate Sebastian even without an unpredictable principal to mind, so the uncanny stillness of the day suits him just fine.

Moriarty's business today takes place in a Chinese restaurant. Sebastian dismisses as no threat the few cheery Muslim families and the young couple with a very small baby as the maitre d' ushers their party through to another room. Instead Seb eyes the exits and the Hungarian gangsters already seated at their table.

The Hungarians have the sense to stand upon Moriarty's approach. They're important enough that the consulting criminal has deigned to come himself, so they're either very clever or the Irishman wants to have some cruel fun with them.

Moriarty gestures and they seat themselves. Sebastian stays standing, hovering at a reasonable distance and not being drawn into the glaring matches from the young bodyguards the Hungarians have brought.

Sebastian listens a little as the men at the table talk. He doesn't take much interest in the topic but the tone the participants speak in tells him plenty about the mood of the room.

The Hungarians want a bigger piece of the action in some underground racket that they feel has been exceedingly encroached upon by another, newer organised crime ring. They're likely not imagining it; the Hungarian presence has been getting smaller and smaller of late.

Sebastian is not really paying attention to their petty grievances until he recognises the names of certain territories where the gangsters' rivals are supposedly most active.

Sebastian's heard what goes on there.

Stomach tightening, Seb casts a look at his employer. Moriarty is half-way through his second course and gives the blond a look that suggests Sebastian's face is doing that thing again. Seb feels scolded and for the rest of the plate feels rather ignored.

Jim Moriarty orders dessert and excuses himself to the restroom. Sebastian follows with one of his handpicked men. Moriarty and his other bodyguard wait whilst Sebastian checks out the safety of the toilets then the blond respectfully bids Moriarty enter.

The brunet closes the door and Sebastian's heart instantly sinks at the Irishman's expression. Sebastian Moran is thoroughly practised in recogising when he is seconds away from a bollocking.

“I don't employ you to speak,” Moriarty begins.

Seb almost protests that he has not said a word, but he catches himself in time.

“I also don't pay you to have opinions,” Moriarty continues. “Do you want to explain why you saw fit to comport yourself like that out there?”

Sebastian swallows. There's not much Moriarty could throw at him in here, but the little man is perfectly capable of pulling a gun. Moriarty is also perfectly capable of telling Sebastian to go smash his stupid face off of a wall or sink repeatedly and Seb knows he would have to do it.

“Oh, now you have nothing to say?” Moriarty snaps. “What possessed you in there?”

Sebastian reluctantly looks up from his shoes. “Can we not? That business I mean?” The blond trails off with a frown.

“You think you're in a position right now to be asking for favours, Moran?” Moriarty asks.

“No, sir,” Seb responds. His jaw rocks tensely. “But surely there's something different-”

“Squeamish, Moran?” the slight Irishman taunts.

Sebastian tilts his chin. He doesn't have a problem with blood, but…

“You've been perfectly happy to work with women before,” Moriarty says coolly.

“There's a different between killing people and… that!” Sebastian blurts. He catches himself. “Sir.”

Moriarty merely shrugs. “Fine.” He steps away towards the urinals.

“Fine?” Sebastian repeats quietly.

The Irishman uses the facilities without speaking but meets his bodyguard's gaze in the mirror whilst drying his hands. Seb's mouth feels dry. 

“You can take pictures of the wallpaper in their hotel,” Moriarty says.

Sebastian blinks and tilts his head. He does not understand, but the Irishman has already dismissively stepped towards the door.

Jim Moriarty negotiates further with the Hungarians over ice cream. He says nothing to Seb in the car afterwards.

Later Sebastian spends a frustrated few minutes Googling what his employer could possibly have meant. He almost drops his phone when he finds a way to counter human trafficking that involves just what Moriarty suggested.

It's a long term solution to a problem Sebastian would rather resolve now but it makes Seb's heart flutter all the same. Did the infamous consulting criminal just give him carte blanche to sabotage this deal?

It takes Seb longer than he is proud of to act on his hunch, but when he does, it slowly leads to the Hungarian gangsters losing their grip on the trafficking ring they had taken over. Some even go to jail.

The original traffickers come to Moriarty for help to take back their business, and it would be laughable if there was any other way to do things around here. They probably knew fine well that Moriarty had had a hand in their poor fortunes in the first place, because that's how things are done around here.

It probably stung most because they'd paid Moriarty to give them the Hungarian turf before that. If you paid the Irishman for a one-off he had no qualms betraying you once your deal was delivered.

Sebastian has the car wash that gang launder money from turned over; he ensures the police find plenty of grounds to search the rented properties the girls are rented from, and that the gang don't have the opportunity to clean house before the uniforms visit.

Sebastian then ditches his phone and gets out of town for a few days. It's an incredibly stupid thing to do, he and his face know, but what else can he do? His employer is hardly going to turn a blind eye to an entire organised crime ring being taken down right here in London where Moriarty is known to run everything.

It doesn't take many days for Sebastian to be found. What surprises him is that the Irishman shows up himself.

It shouldn't surprise him. Seb knows Jim Moriarty is a sadist.

The pale little brunet looks Sebastian over unsympathetically. “I think this is the first time you've ever worn a sensible expression.”

Sebastian's no coward, but he's not stupid either. So much blood has drained from his face that he feels cold. 

“Well? Are you not going to make your excuses?” Moriarty asks. He walks around Seb's little kitchen quite confidently, as though he has known the bolthole for a number of months. Perhaps longer.

“Nothing you want to hear. Sir,” Sebastian says with a small frown. He watches nervously as Moriarty fills and switches on the kettle.

Jim Moriarty tuts. “I do believe I have warned you already about making presumptions about what I want to be told.” He takes down sugar without having to check more than one cupboard.

Sebastian feels his heart pounding so fiercely he wonders whether the other men can hear it. He knows fine well that sugar and boiling water are not a combination his skin will enjoy.

Moriarty gestures at Seb. “Take a seat. Boys, do you want tea?”

The men blocking Sebastian's exits make soft, non-committal noises. 

Jim Moriarty takes out a metal spoon. Sebastian feels sick.

One of Seb's former colleagues approaches Moriarty gingerly and offers to make the teas. The Irishman agrees readily, but takes the spoon with him as he approaches Sebastian.

“I believe I told you to take. A. Seat,” the Irishman growls.

Sebastian half-heartedly glances at the muscle around him. He's not stupid enough to try to escape, but it beats looking at that spoon. Seb does not want to imagine that metal near his face. Near-

There is a firm hand on his shoulder. Sebastian flinches and twists away, his fists raising, but there are two large men flanking him and Jim Moriarty's harsh lilt rings out through the tiny room, “I SAID, 'SIT DOWN', MORAN.”

Sebastian sits reluctantly.

Moriarty points the spoon at him menacingly. “Who do you think you are disobeying me?” he asks.

Sebastian feels another chill. He stops straining against the others and breathes raggedly. “I-”

“Shut up,” Moriarty says. “I can see from your fool face that you don't even understand the question.”

Sebastian blinks. His expression is a mixture of blank confusion and concern.

The kettle clicks. Seb's stomach sinks.

Tea is poured. Sebastian counts the mugs and considers the capacity of the kettle.

Moriarty is handed tea first. He accepts Seb's ugly mug and wags the spoon at the blond. “You, Moran, have been terribly naughty.”

Sebastian breathes out slowly. “Yes sir.”

Hot mugs are handed to the men on either side of him. He tries not to think what scalded skin stuck to clothing looks like.

“You've not been answering Daddy's calls,” Moriarty drawls.

Sebastian looks up quickly.

The Irishman exaggerates a disapproving noise. “Little boys who run away can expect to face their Daddy's displeasure; you know that at least.”

Sebastian feels his stomach clench. “Yes sir,” he says quietly.

Moriarty raises his brows mockingly. “Not so confident now, are you, you brat? Do you want to explain what made you think running was a good idea?”

Sebastian tenses as a steaming mug is places before him. “I didn't,” he mutters.

Moriarty raises his brows. “You didn't run?”

“I didn't think it was a good idea,” Sebastian clarifies as respectfully as he can.

Jim Moriarty throws the spoon at Seb. It lands on the table, upsetting the scalding liquid within the mug and splashing it over the rim. Sebastian leans back warily.

“Then why do it?” Moriarty snaps.

Seb raises a brow slowly. Warily he responds, “You think it would have been safer for me to stay?”

Moriarty's own brows raise and he slams his mug on the table between them. “And what did you have to be worried about that was possibly worse than my ire, Sebastian Moran?”

Seb swallows. “The girls-”

Moriarty throws himself into a chair facing Seb. “Are you saying you ran because of that… trafficking ring?” he snarls incredulously.

Sebastian tries to keep from shrinking into his broad shoulders. “You think I should have stayed?”

“HOW DENSE ARE YOU?” the Irishman demands. “I gave you permission..!”

Sebastian blinks. “For the Hungarians,” he croaks.

“For all of them!” Jim Moriarty gives Seb an unreadable expression and shakes his head. “I don't give a damn what businesses thrive under me as long as they're mine.” 

As Sebastian tries to process this, Moriarty swipes his mug off of the table where it smashes into mostly large pieces on the floor. Sebastian shifts his footing as hot liquid creeps towards his toes. “I can't believe I employ so many incompetent ignoramuses,” the Irishman rants.

“Sorry,” Seb mutters.

Moriarty flashes him a fierce look that Sebastian cannot fully comprehend. The brunet turns sharply and barks at one of his men. “Get this idiot a new phone!”

The man clearly does not understand either but he disappears at once (lest he disappear forever).

Sebastian can only watch as Jim Moriarty pinches the bridge of a pale nose tersely. Moriarty closes then opens his eyes with exaggerated effort then pushes back his chair and stands to pace. “I just can't get the staff,” he mutters.

Sebastian swallows. He looks to the men around him and notices that they haven't drank a drop of their tea. 

Jim Moriarty stabs a finger in Seb's direction. “You don't get to just leave. You have work to do.”

“Yes, sir,” says Sebastian. He's not certain what else he can say.

Moriarty nods briskly. His paces are agitated and Seb feels a slow worry that the Irishman will slip in the tea on the floor. Sebastian is certain that would go badly for all present.

Jim Moriarty clicks his tongue. “Let's go,” he says and abruptly heads towards the door.

Sebastian stands cautiously.

Moriarty throws open the door and turns to cast him a glower. “You're grounded,” he snaps.

Seb is uncertain how to respond. “Yes, sir,” he says and follows.

Sebastian waits for a real punishment but it never really comes. Moriarty glares and shouts a lot, but he does that ordinarily. The blond cannot help but feel that something is off, but he doesn't dare examine his uncanny luck. At this point if he's headed towards some truly horrible surprise demise he'd rather not know.

Sebastian does his best to keep his head down. Moriarty cannot be described as nice to him by any stretch of the imagination, and Seb constantly expects eventually rebuttal, but… Nothing ever really happens about his little misadventure other than the odd spiteful comment or joyless task to do.

It's unheard of. At first Seb is a nervous wreck about it. He thinks himself a cruel experiment; Moriarty's game of seeing how long it takes for Sebastian to forget his trespass… to forget to be afraid…

But Sebastian is rather at home in feeling afraid. Being afraid is familiar; so commonplace in fact that after a while… Seb barely notices at all.

Sebastian rather likes his job. He likes the exhausting hours and terrifying uncertainty of living in close quarters with an infamous consulting criminal genius mastermind.

Sebastian finds himself at Moriarty's side more often than not. After a while it stops feeling like a punishment.

The next time Sebastian makes a mistake it is not of Jim Moriarty's making. Not directly.

Pet bodyguard or not, the Irishman knows that Sebastian Moran is his best marksman, and that the blond will become less skillful with lack of use. As such, he allows Seb out on little jaunts to murder people now and again.

Sebastian is content with this, even if sometimes (oftentimes) the orders are less than straightforward or reasonable. Jim Moriarty likes showing off, and using Seb to send a message is a very signature type of bragging. Sebastian doesn't mind the difficulties.

He likes those brief little nods Moriarty gives for a job well done. 

Sebastian tries not to think about how much pleasure he gets from the way the Irishman's dark eyes glitter after a particularly complex hit.

The consulting criminal and his pet assassin may be infamous, but that does not equate to popularity. Moriarty is fickle and expensive; Sebastian kills who he's told to, for the most part. His accuracy is never lacking, but like his face, he's never been too good at being told what to do.

Sebastian is finishing up after a kill when he finds himself in trouble. He deals with the problem as best he can, but it involves being semi-strangled with old Christmas lights (which beyond the choking is unpleasant due to the cut of the foil frills around the pointy glass bulbs and the miscellaneous grime of being attached to guttering for years); and explosion-rolling out of a second story window onto a convertible car's roof, which saves most of his bones but is going to leave him limping for weeks and perhaps months to come.

Seb understands when he is being targeted and knows better than to lead any other potential stalkers back to Moriarty. This makes Sebastian late home, and the Irishman has never been tolerant of tardiness.

Sebastian's gotten used to Moriarty's shouting, and only really pays attention to this decibel when it seems the brunet is liable to throw something. Seb notes that Moriarty is angry as the small man storms up and yanks his bleeding, blond jaw around, but it's harder to hear the words than usual. Jim's fingers must have reopened cuts there because Sebastian notices his neck and collar feel wet. He wishes Moriarty would stop shouting because his ears are aching and he's hurting all over and he closes his eyes and…

Sebastian wakes up to silence. His wrist feels rough and heavy and as he blinks at the plaster there it takes the blond longer than it should for him to understand he is wearing a cast.

Seb's throat hurts worse than anything. He brings his fingertips to it gingerly and grimaces at the gauze and tape and tender skin he finds there. It's mostly bruising, he supposes, but it feels like quite a few fairy lights broke his skin. It hurts to breathe, or swallow, or just exist. He's lucky his throat is intact.

Sebastian tries to sit up and his head swims. He touches it clumsily and frowns. Twisting his body hurts everything. He vaguely remembers the fall and wonders whether he's been given anything for the pain. It would not surprise him if Moriarty had denied him pain medication as punishment for such failure.

Sebastian heaves an aching breath and tries to slide out of the bed. It's difficult; his limbs all seem oddly disconnected and sluggish. He struggles. But Sebastian is stubborn and he perseveres. 

Seb almost swears when he gets to his feet. He almost thinks he had, but he doesn't hear anything other than his oddly muffled, laboured breathing. It hurts to walk. His balance is off. Sebastian staggers to the doorway anyway.

He is almost accosted by Moriarty. The brunet shouts, but Sebastian cannot hear him. He can feel Moriarty's hot breath on his face and realises he must be slumped low. Trying to stand straighter just makes him dizzy.

Sebastian tries to hold his thumping skull and feels gauze at his ears.

Moriarty shoves at him, and when Seb stumbles, the consulting criminal takes Sebastian's arm in a deathgrip and drags him towards the bed.

“I can't hear you,” Sebastian says.

He can see Jim Moriarty curse him.

Sebastian's not allowed to go killing alone after that. He supposes he doesn't entirely mind. It's alright to have a spotter if they don't get in the way.

Sebastian is out with said spotter the following Christmas, fully healed beyond a scar or three on his wrist and throat. He returns to Moriarty's flat to find the smaller man drunk and arguing with a woman.

She seems relieved to see Sebastian. “At last,” she says. “Help me hold him down.”

Seb is about to ask whether she's mad or stupid when he sees the blood streaking Jim's suit.

“It went right through,” the doctor says.

“She wants to undress me but it hurts,” Jim Moriarty says petulantly. He's trying to sound like his usual haughty self but Seb can hear by the tight intake of breath that the Irishman is hurting.

“Whiskey not working?” Sebastian mutters, coming in close enough to smell it on Moriarty.

The brunet glowers. Brown liquid sloshes in the bottle he holds. “Does it look like it?” the smaller man growls.

“I'll get it,” Sebastian says. “Let me help you. Sir. You can… bite my shoulder or something if it hurts too much.” He reaches for Moriarty's buttons.

A hand goes to Seb's throat; a thumb and forefinger a barrier that would wind Sebastian with any more force. “What do you taste like?” the brunet asks.

It's at that point Sebastian realises, raising his eyebrows, that Jim Moriarty is very drunk indeed. The blond tries to ignore his employer and peels Moriarty as carefully as possible from the suit jacket.

Moriarty grabs Sebastian's tie. “I asked-”

“Hush,” Seb says. He loosens Jim's own tie and undoes the rest of the shirt buttons. “We need to get this off of you.”

Moriarty wrinkles his nose. “It's ruined.”

“I'll buy you a new one,” Sebastian sighs.

“I can buy my own,” Moriarty says indignantly. He yanks at Seb's shirt and dislodges a few buttons. “I can buy yours too.”

“I don't need your money,” Seb murmurs distractedly. He gestures for the doctor to hand him antiseptic wipes.

“No? Your other Daddy forgive you, did he?” the Irishman says.

Sebastian's jaw tenses. He suddenly feels less comfortable with having the other man's hands on his chest. “I don't need his forgiveness,” the blond says.

“You need something,” Moriarty stresses. His usual, mocking sing-song voice is slurring.

Sebastian shrugs and reaches for the Irishman's thin wrists. “I needed excitement; I get that from you.” Seb looks over Moriarty's shoulder and nods at the doctor. His large hands close tight enough around Moriarty's to feel the smaller man's pulse.

Moriarty roars as his doctor swiftly and efficiently cleans and closes the wound. His pale shoulders are smeared in blood that stops abruptly where the wound is dressed with snowy white gauze. The middle is already darkening, but weakly, and Sebastian knows that's far preferable to needing towels to soak up a badly bleeding injury.

Jim Moriarty throws his head forward and Seb expects to feel the force of the slight skull against his chest but instead his nostrils fill with the scent of Moriarty's expensive hair products. The man has slowed at the last moment; the violence does not come. Moriarty buries his face in Sebastian's shirt. It tugs Seb's tie askew. 

Sebastian wants to close his eyes and breathe in deeply but he doesn't. The doctor is nearby, tidying up her equipment.

She meets Seb's eyes as Moriarty sways on his feet against the bigger man's chest. “I'll leave his drugs on the counter. He's going to be ...cranky when he wakes up.”

Moriarty turns to look at her sidelong but his forehead remains a soft pressure against Sebastian. “Why are you giving it to him? Give it to me. I'm in charge...”

“You're not going to remember much in the morning, sir,” the woman says.

“I'll make sure he takes them,” Sebastian says.

“I'll leave instructions. Do you want something to keep you awake for a few days?” the doctor asks.

Sebastian quirks a brow. “No, why would I?”

She gives him an odd smile as she gets ready to leave. “If you can sleep when the boss is in this state you're braver than I am,” she murmurs.

Sebastian starts to wonder about that, but then he looks down. Moriarty's eyes are closed.

“Tired?” the blond asks. “Sir.”

Moriarty's brow creases. “I got shot. I'm high on adrenaline and everything else, and yet I'm exhausted.”

“I'll take you to bed,” Sebastian says. “You can sleep if you can and if not… we can talk or something.”

“Because that's how I want you to entertain me,” the consulting criminal mutters. He pulls away lightly as Sebastian presses his lips together and wonders whether there is a threat there or something else. Moriarty's steps are uncertain and Seb quickly follows to be there if the smaller man should fall.

Nothing happens, but then Sebastian did not expect it to. Not exactly.

It is, however, when the blond realised he had hoped.

Jim Moriarty has nothing to say about anything in the morning, and his lack of jibes should really tell Sebastian plenty. The blond stays attentive over the recovery but whatever he sensed that night seems absent. Or perhaps that's what his sense of self-preservation tells him to think.

Sebastian puts the whole thing out of his mind quite deliberately.

He does not see Moriarty drunk again until next Christmas.

It's not a particularly festive job that the consulting criminal has given Sebastian. The blond has been left to his own devices in a room covered in plastic sheeting. Seb has suspicions this sort of thing is what Moriarty considers a Christmas bonus, or perhaps even a present. Sebastian is something like content doing bad things to bad people, but there's a thing that feels a lot like hollowness buried deep down in his chest.

He's understood what that feeling is since Jim got shot, so Seb supposes he's lucky to be somewhere he can take our his frustrations.

That's when Jim Moriarty chooses to waltz in, and Sebastian does his best not to let his face show how his chest suddenly feels squeezed in.

Moriarty looks around. Ordinarily the dark-eyed brunet can look anywhere between nonchalant and gleeful at the mess, but that's not the expression on his pointed, little face today. Sebastian doesn't understand it.

“Brutal,” the consulting criminal says. His lilting voice is devoid of judgement, and that makes Sebastian know he should be very afraid of judgement.

Moriarty steps closer, surveying their surroundings. He steps right through the puddle of blood on the floor.

Sebastian wonders whether the smaller man can hear his heart pounding from down there.

Moriarty tuts. “You're usually more… creative,” he tells Seb.

Sebastian looks at his handwork, although he knows the devil now at his side is correct.

“Not full of the festive spirit?” the Irishman mocks.

Sebastian swallows. “I guess not… sir.”

Moriarty steps into Seb's personal space. Seb thinks he can smell whiskey from the man's pores, and he confirms it when Moriarty opens his mouth. “I thought you'd be pleased to have a chance to play today,” he purrs.

Sebastian swallows. “Holidays get me cranky, I guess.”

Moriarty looks amused, but not in a kind way. “You going to tell me about your family life, Moran?”

Sebastian smiles anyway. “Oh, I don't think I could afford for you to fix any of that for me, sir.”

Moriarty raises his brows just a little in an expression that is exaggerated and predatory. “Are you saying I don't pay you enough for your services?”

“You pay me just fine sir,” Seb says carefully.

“Who knows where you are right now, Moran?” Moriarty asks suddenly.

Sebastian looks up at once. “You. Some of the boys, probably...”

“No one from outside of work, hmm?” the Irishman presses. He seems amused, and that heightens Seb's nerves.

“Course not,” says Sebastian.

Moriarty tuts with faux sympathy. “And that is exactly why, Sebastian Moran, that if I so choose, no one will ever see you again. Are you ready to play a game?”

Seb shivers. He wipes some of the blood from his hands and reminds himself of possible exit strategies. “Do I want to know what kind of game?” he asks warily.

“Doesn't matter to me,” Moriarty says with a shrug. His tie pin glints in the poor light as he does so.

Sebastian nods slowly. “What do I have to do… sir?”

Moriarty steps around the space and picks up some duct tape. He tilts his head at a nearby pipe. Seb gets the message and steps over it, but touches the metal first to ensure it won't burn him.

Moriarty chuckles. “Stop wasting time.”

Sebastian swallows. His racing pulse throbs in his ears as he allows the consulting criminal to approach and tape strong arms behind Seb's back, the chilled metal between Sebastian's shoulder blades.

“Can you get free?” Moriarty asks.

Sebastian tests the binds. “Not easily,” he answers.

Moriarty takes the bigger man's phone from the jacket nearby. Sebastian frowns as the brunet puts in its passcode without having to ask for it.

Moriarty casts him a sidelong look and raises a brow. “What? You think I haven't seen you pick this up when you've been on the clock for me?”

Sebastian presses his lips together. He doesn't find it unreasonable to check his phone now and again when he's been a live in bodyguard for this cad for years – on the clock every hour Moriarty chooses.

Moriarty is now scrolling through Seb's call history thoughtfully. “Not very chatty, are you, Moran?” the Irishman muses. “You do message your brother often though. I dare say I could have some fun with him.”

Sebastian feels ice in his gut. Moriarty laughs at the tanned man's suddenly grey pallor. “You rather I abstain?” he consulting criminal asks cruelly.

Seb shifts his strong arms. They're going to be a bloody mess if he tries to free himself, and that's no guarantee that Moriarty hasn't already planned something horrible.

Moriarty steps close and drops the phone between Sebastian's feet. The screen cracks.

“You want to stop me, Tiger?” Moriarty says. “Make me.”

Sebastian's mouth feels dry. “I… I'm not certain that I understand the game. Sir.”

“The game, Sebastian, is simple: either you stop me, or I'm going to hurt what you love,” Moriarty says.

Sebastian's heart pounds. He feels sick, but he tries not to think about that. He puts strain on the tape around his wrists and tries not to think about how much the next part is going to hurt.

“Thatta boy,” Moriarty purrs. “I had hoped the fire hadn't gone out in you.”

Sebastian raises and lowers his arms with purpose. It hurts like hell when he frees himself, but he doesn't waste time looking at the shredded skin of his forearms. He rushes Moriarty and pins the Irishman by the fabric of an overpriced suit.

Sebastian glances around at their surroundings when the smaller man does not resist. “I was expecting a nasty surprise.”

Moriarty smirks. “You can try to hit me if you like. You might enjoy it.”

Seb sighs. “I'm not that stupid.”

“Not what your face says,” Moriarty comments.

“My face isn't saying I want to hit you,” Sebastian mutters. His arms are stinging and bleeding right onto the other man's suit.

“Oh? Skipping straight to the killing, were you?” Moriarty asks, unfussed. “I had worried from the lacklustre way you've been working recently that you'd lost the taste.”

Seb narrows his eyes instantly. “I've been distracted by-!”

“Yes?” Moriarty prompts. Widening his eyes he says, “Do spit it out. I'm very interested in what's on your mind.”

Sebastian curls his lip. “Very funny.”

“I'm perfectly serious,” Moriarty insists. “I want to know what's gotten into you. It's bad for business.”

“More like what's not gotten into me,” Seb mutters. “And nothing's bad for business! I still work just as hard-”

“You're no fun anymore,” the Irishman interrupts.

Sebastian throws up his arms. “What do you want me to do?” The blond notices the flapping skin around his fresh injuries and looks elsewhere.

Jim Moriarty gazes at him with fathomless dark eyes and says nothing.

Seb sighs. “Fine. If you let me live I guess I'll… try harder… to have fun with things.”

“You'll do no such thing,” Moriarty says. “Given your terrible sense you'll end up with both of us killed.”

“What do you want then?” Sebastian asks desperately.

“Have a drink with me,” Moriarty says abruptly.

“What?” Seb says blankly. “Why, is it drugged?”

“Just do as you're told, Sebastian,” Moriarty growls.

Seb gives the smaller man a sidelong look and leads them back through the drying puddle of sticky blood to a cleanish area where they can sit. “Since when is it just 'Sebastian'?”

“Since I've wasted most of this very fine malt trying to decide whether to kill you,” Moriarty snaps.

Sebastian makes a face at the Irishman. “You made a decision?”

“No,” the Irishman growls. He pulls out an expensive-looking flask from his inner chest pocket. He takes a drink then offers it to Seb. Sebastian supposes that since Moriarty is so pale the dark liquid has shown itself running down the devil's throat then the whiskey probably isn't poisoned. It still feels like an oddly intimate thing for them to do: share a drink like this. 

Seb wonders how much it will take for his arms to stop hurting. He reminds himself how foolish it would be to get drunk enough to be honest.

Moriarty reaches for the flask and takes another, longer, swig. “You're a puzzle, Sebastian Moran,” he says at last.

“You like puzzles,” says Seb.

Moriarty scoffs. “And I like you, do I?”

“I have no idea,” says Sebastian. “Don't you want me dead?”

“Yes,” Jim Moriarty agrees, then he twists to take Seb's jaw in his free hand and pull it down to his own.

Sebastian tells himself not to kiss his employer, really he does, but he's been wondering for a whole year what the little dark-eyed devil tastes of and he might not ever otherwise find out.

Moriarty kisses him hard, with teeth and tongue and a hand curled around Seb's skull. The brunet discards the flask to grip Sebastian with both hands and Seb gives into temporary insanity just long enough to grab the tiny man by the waist and pull Moriarty up onto his lap. The Irishman wraps thin arms around Seb hungrily, never disconnecting their clashing mouths, and lets Sebastian's large hands roam his back and thighs. Seb's not brave or insane enough to try touching anything more intimate.

“Guess I can die happy then,” Sebastian says weakly when his consulting criminal finally pulls away.

“You're ready to die for a kiss?” Moriarty drawls.

Sebastian blinks slowly at him. “Why? What else is on offer?” 

Moriarty cocks his head. “If I bed you, your life is mine. I'll dispose of you at will.”

“What's new about that?” Seb scoffs.

“You cannot possibly comprehend what you are agreeing to,” says Jim Moriarty. He sounds annoyed. “What could you be thinking?”

“I'm thinking you already decide on a whim whether I live or die; we might as well enjoy it,” Sebastian says. “Do you want me on my front or my back? And do you want a change of scenery becau-”

The Irishman jolts back and shakes his head, startling the blond.

“Get out,” Moriarty says harshly. He takes the gun from Seb's holster as he stands and Sebastian does not dare disarm the man, even though he can. Moriarty points the gun and gestures agitatedly towards an exit. “I said get the heck out!”

Numb horror washes over Sebastian. He stands.

“I can't stand your stupid face!” Moriarty explodes. “Get out. Go!”

Confused, hot tears threaten to well in Seb's eyes but if he lifts his chin he's too tall for the little Irishman to see how they gleam wetly. Sebastian tries not to give himself away with a sniff and shakes his head vigorously. “Wh… What?”

“That was an order!” Moriarty snarls. He pushes Sebastian's gun against the blond's chest and Seb knows if he disarms the predatory little runt it'll only mean worse things than a quick death.

Sebastian knows to be terrified. For once his legs feel weak instead of surging with the excitement of running headon into danger… but he doesn't move, except to shiver. He hopes his face tells the dark-eyed devil that he wants to stay, but Seb fears that'll only encourage Moriarty to cut it off.

“You need to go,” the Irishman reiterates.

“Go where?” Sebastian asks.

“Away!” Moriarty exclaims. “I won't… Just… Just leave! Now!”

“Should I go back to yours?” Sebastian asks. “Should I find somewhere else for the night? What?”

“I don't care!” Moriarty bellows. “Just get out of my sight!”

Sebastian lingers for a beat. Eventually he shakes his head. “Merry Christmas,” he says bitterly, and then he takes a step back from the muzzle of his own gun and starts walking.

Moriarty's sleeping off a hangover when Sebastian finally decides to go home the following day. The blond pours a tall glass of cold water and bravely enters Moriarty's dark room to leave it beside the bed.

The Irishman emerges a few hours later with an empty glass which he carries to the kitchen and refills. Sebastian can see from the man's face that Moriarty remembers their last exchange but the brunet chooses to say nothing of it. The exasperating consulting criminal locks himself in his office for the rest of the day and later Sebastian finds his pilfered gun left on his bedlinens.

Moriarty says nothing about the kiss or its aftermath for a year, but the following Christmas he books Sebastian a trip abroad. It is ostensibly for work purposes, but there's an unusually long period of downtime where Seb may as well be on holiday. The blond does not know how to interpret it, but then, since when do Moriarty's inner workings ever make a lick of sense?

Sebastian takes it as a hint to keep his mouth shut and he does his best to learn how to school his face into something stonily neutral.

The next Christmas Moriarty deigns to let Sebastian stay. They don't say a word about it, but Seb knows the action doesn't mean nothing.

Months later the consulting criminal has them traipsing through an orchard of cultivated apple trees looking for something a dead man has hidden.

Being taller, Sebastian is the first to see the mistletoe growing up high in the branches of the fruit trees. He resolutely does not look at the plants and wonders whether the reason for coming up here was really a ruse to get him to dig his own grave.

“Why are you staring at the ground?” Moriarty asks. “He buried it years ago; you're not going to be able to see-”

Sebastian's face is unreadable.

That in itself gives Moriarty pause, as it often has of late. He pinches the bridge of his narrow nose and takes a breathe. “Don't give me that stupid look; it doesn't suit you, Moran.”

Sebastian hoists his shovel a little higher and walks on ahead. “How'd you want me to look, sir?”

Moriarty presses his lips together. “I want you to look at me when I'm talking to you!”

Seb swings around slowly. He raises his brows and spreads out his free arm despondently. “Well?”

Moriarty glowers for a beat then looks away. He counts then points. “There. Start digging.”

“Yes sir,” Sebastian says in a polite tone Moriarty does not care for. The brunet wanders closer as the bigger man starts to dig wordlessly. Moriarty leans against a tree and watches with a scowl. His expression softens as he watches the muscles of Seb's back and arms.

Jim Moriarty curses and looks heavenward. He catches sight of the parasitic evergreen within the boughs of the apple trees.

Sebastian looks up and smears dirt from his face. He looks terribly tan with his white shirt sleeves rolled up and the sun glistening in his closely shorn, golden hair. “What? You miscount?”

“Of course not,” Moriarty snaps. He sighs, and Sebastian shrugs at the silence. The Irishman watches Seb start digging again.

With a grimace Jim Moriarty steps over the mud and approaches the larger man.

“I hope you know that if you kill me out here I can't clean those brogues when you get home,” Sebastian grumbles.

Moriarty blinks. “Who said I was going to kill you?”

“You do. All the time,” Sebastian says.

“You shouldn't always listen to me,” the Irishman says.

Seb stops digging.

Jim Moriarty takes ahold of the knot of Sebastian Moran's tie and tugs.

“You're going to have to take my tie clip away if you want to properly asphyxiate me,” Seb says dryly.

“Shut up and kiss me,” Jim Moriarty says. “I'll cut your fool tongue out later.”

Sebastian straightens his back instead. Keeping his face impartial, he acknowledges that there's no one but he and Jim around for acres and acres.

“No,” Seb says.

“What?” Moriarty responds.

“No,” Sebastian repeats firmly. “I'm not interested in kissing you now just so you can threaten me later. Or so you can ignore me. Or kill me. No.”

“I don't care what you want,” the brunet begins to argue.

Sebastian climbs out of the hole. “Fine,” he says. “Then we're done.” He drops down the shovel. “You'll need this. Good luck digging with those hands.”

“Don't you dare turn your back on me!” Moriarty howls.

Seb spins around. “Or what? Have you thought of yet another way to mutilate or kill me? Because I am so bored of that, Jimmy.”

“Who do you think you're talking to?” Jim Moriarty snarls.

Sebastian snorts. “The man too cowardly to kiss me.”

The Irishman ungracefully pulls himself back out of the muddy hole in the ground. He throws himself towards Sebastian, then freezes.

Seb snorts and lifts the smaller man's chin. “This what you want?” he asks. He bows and captures Jim Moriarty's mouth in a firm kiss.

The Irishman uses Seb's gun holster to pull the bigger man closer.

Sebastian pointedly takes a step back. “Aren't you going to run away now? Threaten me and make me leave?”

Moriarty is silent for a beat. “No one speaks to me like that.”

“I do,” Seb says. “Aren't you ever listening?”

Jim Moriarty is quiet for an uncomfortably long time. Eventually Sebastian curls his lip and walks off. “Kill me or don't; I don't care.”

“I care!” the Irishman calls after him.

Sebastian doesn't turn around. “Then you do the heavy lifting for once.”

Jim Moriarty cannot remember the last time he ran, but he runs after Sebastian Moran. He doesn't know what to do when he catches up to the blond; he grasps the bigger man's warm wrist and wonders at his own loss for words.

Sebastian raises his brows.

“Stay,” Moriarty says at last. “Stay today and every other day.”

“With you, or under a pile of dirt around here?” Seb asks dryly.

“Stay with me,” says Jim Moriarty. He pulls Sebastian down to his height and under mistletoe berries not yet in season he kisses the blond long and hard and honestly. It feels like a gift to Seb.


End file.
